


Crimson and Gold

by thinlizzy2



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Food, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 14:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley visit Hay-on-Wye, Britain's famous "Town of Books", as they adjust to their new reality.Or, Heaven and Hell are full of vindictive bastards, but Crowley and Aziraphale are together so life is still pretty damn good.





	Crimson and Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

Dead leaves crunch under their feet as Aziraphale and Crowley make their way down yet another picturesque cobblestone street, and the trees that line the road are a riot of bright autumn colours. There is a particular perfume in the air that honestly only comes out around this time of year, and really only in the British countryside. It's a mix of spiced apples, crisp air, distant woodsmoke and wooly sweaters only just removed from their summer storage. Crowley breathes it all in, even as he shakes his head at the thatched roofs and stone cottages, the throng of weekend tourists and the endless rows of bookshops. He can't help but roll his eyes a bit at how unbelievably twee it all is; after all, things were a fair sight less lovely back when thatches and cobbles were actually the only options available. A sarcastic little quip about tourist traps hovers at the tip of his tongue, but then Aziraphale takes his hand to lead him into yet another shop and suddenly there's nowhere else on Earth he would rather be.

He watches as Aziraphale consults his list and then chats with the shopkeeper; the woman's hopes for an easy sale are clearly dashed when she realises that she's dealing with an expert. As far as Crowley can tell, Aziraphale has accepted that his collection will never be complete now. New books are published every day, and his time is limited in a way that it never was before. But that doesn't mean he'll stop trying, and Crowley loves that about him.

He loves so many things about him.

In the end, Aziraphale only buys two books from this particular shop, but he seems delighted to have them. And there are still scores of other shops to check.

Crowley had promised to take Aziraphale anywhere he wanted to go. It was an offer he had made before, back when Aziraphale was still an angel, only to have it rejected. But a number of things are different now, and so they're in Hay-on-Wye of all places - a tiny little Welsh hamlet known only for its staggering amount of second-hand bookshops and the unspeakably nerdy crowds that they bring in. And Crowley is fine - absolutely fucking fine - with being there, because any place that can make Aziraphale smile like this is more than all right with him.

Love has changed him. Not in the same way that love, or rather actions stemming from love, ultimately changed Aziraphale, but just as apparently permanently.

The scent in the air changes too, as they wander towards a stand selling hot steaming cups of drinks. Crowley's nose fills up with that particular richness that only good chocolate has - sugar and cocoa and cream. Aziraphale inhales deeply and then makes a regretful face. "I probably shouldn't. Blood sugar and all that."

By now, Crowley is well-schooled at keeping the pity that he knows Aziraphale hates from his face. He knows his lover is probably right, but then again they've already walked for bloody miles today and he can't bear to see Aziraphale deny himself something that he clearly wants. Crowley personally can take or leave chocolate, but he orders two cups just for the pleasure of sharing. He gets them the way Aziraphale likes them best - an extra pinch of tiny marshmallows and whipped cream on the top. Aziraphale's face lights up as Crowley hands him the paper cup; he's obviously happy to be talked into enjoying it. And Crowley's chest fills up with an ache much sweeter than the drink.

Aziraphale ends up with a ridiculous whipped cream mustache that Crowley gets to kiss away. That alone is worth the price of the drinks thousands of times over.

The day meanders on. Aziraphale finds a rare collection of folios in one shop and a hilariously mistranslated Bible in another. His canvas bags grow heavy with cozy British mysteries, stories of loves lost and found again, reflections on small lives lived well. Crowley fights the urge to step in and take Aziraphale's bags from him; the weight is nothing to him, after all. But Aziraphale has made it more than clear that he'll ask if he needs help and otherwise Crowley should just assume that he's fine. That's been one of the hardest things for the demon to accept about the new state of things, but he really is trying.

By the time they make it back to the inn, Aziraphale is pink-cheeked from the wind and the exertion of walking, but obviously happy. He carefully unwraps each book from its protective paper, lovingly brushing the covers free of dust and chattering away about where he plans to stock them in his own shop. Crowley doesn't have much to say about that; books aren't a particular passion of his. And he's never understood Aziraphale's cataloguing system; it isn't meant to be understood anyway. So he just sits back and drinks in the sound of Aziraphale's voice, adoring the way that it fills up a room and trying extremely hard to forget that, unless something changes, every single day he gets one day closer to never hearing it again.

He promised himself he wouldn't think about that this weekend. He's such a damn liar.

Luckily, they can both be distracted by dinner. Aziraphale seems to have forgotten his earlier reservation about diet, or maybe his willpower is worn away by the dining room's special roast goose. Either, way, Crowley is happy about it. He's always loved to watch Aziraphale eat. In the time before, he mostly loved the superfluous nature of it, seeing a heavenly being enjoying earthly pleasures for no other reason than that he could. But now, it's a more immediate joy. Every bite Aziraphale takes nourishes him; proteins and fats and carbohydrates and vitamins are broken down to serve in the noblest possible task: keeping Aziraphale alive.

Keeping him here, with Crowley.

It's the same reason why, after the initial shock of it, he's come to love watching the former angel sleep.

Aziraphale is yawning by the time Crowley leads him back upstairs. "I'm sorry, my dear", he apologizes. I always forget the effect that wine can have now."

"Don't be ridiculous", Crowley chides him. "It's no problem. It's late."

Now that Aziraphale actually has to sleep, he favours a particularly silly style of pajamas that wouldn't look out of place with a nightcap, fuzzy slippers and a hand-carved pipe. Crowley sees him in them every night, but the sight still never fails to make his heart turn over. They settle into bed, with Aziraphale's head resting on Crowley's chest. "It's funny, isn't it?" Aziraphale muses. "I can only assume Heaven did this to punish me. But they've given me the pleasure of getting to fall asleep in your arms. I wouldn't have had that, otherwise."

Crowley holds him tighter. "I worship you", he murmers into the shell of Aziraphale's ear. The phrasing of the thought is perhaps a bit unfortunate, but he can think of no other way to express what he's feeling and he knows Aziraphale won't hold it against him. "Still. Always."

Aziraphale squeezes him back with a reassuring strength. "You know, at first I was angry that they didn't reincarnate me entirely. We could have had that much extra time at least. But I couldn't have handled waiting years and years to find you again. Not on top of everything else."

The thought of it, Aziraphale out of his reach for the long stretch of time that it takes a human to grow to adulthood, is unbearable. Crowley presses a fierce kiss into his messy silver curls. "No", he agrees. "Me either."

"And if I had to become a human in the autumn of my life, well..." Sleepiness is making Aziraphale's voice grow faint. "There are worse things. Autumn's rather nice, after all."

Out of the two of them, Crowley is the one who has the deeper history of enjoying sleep. But he'll gladly forsake it now for the finer pleasure of holding Aziraphale for a few hours. This kind of joy is a newly finite resource, and he will not squander it for lesser things.

Although Aziraphale believes that his mortal state was the vengeful act of Heaven alone, Crowley suspects that Hell at the very least had a hand in it. He knows, in his bones, that this is just as much his punishment as it is Aziraphale's. After all, in a far shorter time than he can bear thinking about for long, he is going to have to face eternity with Aziraphale gone. The thought is unfathomable.

It is also forbidden. Aziraphale hasn't asked for much since this change happened to him, but he has made it clear that he's not interested in spending his remaining time on Earth contemplating its end. And Crowley has promised to do his best to comply with that. 

So he holds his sleeping world in his arms, in the way that a more loving God would have done. He spends the night making plans for a long and rich autumn, full of all the golden treats that make the season as sweet as it can be. And he vows that, even if he fails to discover a trick to hold winter permanently at bay, he will at least find a way to keep Aziraphale warm.


End file.
